July 10, 2007 - 1:36
Today, very vividly I've suffered the images of McCall 2001. Teenage libidinous purge disguised as day-cay. I'll never be there again.
Plate-sized pancake breakfast.
Unspeakable things. Burrs, buckwheat.
Afterwards languishing, plastered against the sun-baked wooden door of the lake's toilet, sun was coming in through a metal grate on the crown of my head. I had locked him out for some reason and was laughing, giddy and post-, ant-bitten where I oughtn't be and content. I came out of the change room once he stopped trying to get in and realized I was alone. There was a lake, pristine, to my left. There was a road, and on the other side was a mini putt-putt course, the turfed rows made up of tires and tin bucket holes, crude wooden character cut-outs observed. I tromped through it and beyond looking for him, making note that I responded to the aestetics of the putt-putt course differently than I had as a kid. It wasn't junk anymore.
I found him on the lake side looking strange. He told me, after cajoling, the brief story of his 'awakening'. It involved a cement floor, a chant, and a hallucinated red dot. I tried to devalue his experience. I was wearing the same violet bathing suit i'll still wear. He poked me where I showed and I didn't say anything more about the red dot.
Ensuing unspeakables.
Mountain pizza diner.
ID